


Hanging Fire

by reluctantabandon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, first time (kinda if you squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are inevitable.  Aren't they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hanging Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Liminal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/632191) by [Justgot1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justgot1/pseuds/Justgot1). 



> This fic owes A LOT to the Antidiogenes Club! Without you all, I would still be writing this. Thank you so much for your lovely comments and support!
> 
> The sources this came from are manifold: Audre Lord's poem Hanging Fire is the first, then the Rolling Stones' song Hang Fire, and Wilfred Owens' work, and various and sundry military sci-fi authors and works. So there.
> 
> Also, the fic "Liminal" by justgot1 is where this all started. Thank you!!

It's the cusp, the moment before it tips over, the tipping moment, the edge of the waterfall, the fraction of a second before the hammer snaps down. 

It's the moment of truth, the point of no return, the wide-eyed awareness of a sudden irrevocable decision about to be made.

There's a heaviness, a solemnity, the feeling of a huge weight just at the balancing place-- like those old cantilevered bridges with enormous blocks of stone or concrete, massive looming cubes above their heads as they walked, fascinated when the whistle blew and the blocks swung ponderous down and the roadbed lifted into the sky. Tourists chattered past unperturbed, patterned cotton and bare legs sand-scratchy, strands of hair whirling past laughing mouths in the sea breeze. The oblivious crowds didn't sense the heft, the slow metallic grind and granite shift above and below that allows this seeming effortless exchange.

The moment when it all stops.

They were there, just the two of them, well, the two of them and the three bombers they’d apprehended (don’t worry, nothing serious, just a pipe-bomb into a local tobacco shop, nobody hurt—well, I say nobody, but these three were pretty well bloodied up and the zip-ties holding them to the bridge railing weren’t too kind either). Just the two of them, then, some heavy breathing and gasps from the bombers at their feet, the Thames thick and heavy beneath the bridge, and the fulvous moon heavy and low in the yellow London sky. Just the two of them, pulling in air in deep gasping breaths, adrenaline making their blood fizz and sting, and the moon hanging turgid and lambent above them. The two of them, stopped, just breathing.

The moment when it all begins.

Sherlock’s face is lit by the moon, the reflection of the London sky making his skin sallow, the hollows of his cheeks luminous in the reflected light from the water. John’s eyes are raptor-sharp, deep midnight glinting with that moonrise, his flashing smile a dare and a promise.

Sherlock dares.

Despite the qualm in his abdomen, the jittery shake of his gloved hands, he stands and stares. Like a man drunk on honey-wine, his breath comes in deep, shuddering gulps, and he can feel his cheeks begin to burn with the pressure of John’s returned gaze.

John tilts his head a bit, still smiling, brilliant, teasing. He steps over the nearest captive, puts out a hand to rest just above Sherlock’s elbow. “You okay?”

“John.” 

John can see Sherlock swallow, sees the long clear column of his throat move and stutter.

“John… “

Their eyes, together, are almost too much, like the glare from a welding torch, the raw flame of magnesium, but they can’t look away. John wants to, almost, but it’s as if the blinding is addictive, and Sherlock’s eyes are somehow now his drug. And Sherlock wants to, nearly does, but the blue of John’s eyes is so compelling in the yellow moonlight, and he can almost name that color, almost…

John realizes he’s stopped breathing just as Sherlock sucks in a surprised breath. John smiles, wryly now, breathes in, and doesn’t drop his steady gaze.

“You…” Sherlock says softly, intent, captivated.  
“You,” says John, still steady, still with a hand on Sherlock’s arm, head slightly tilted, smile still there but softened, as if the moonlight had gentled his intensity, but his eyes are wide and shining.

The moment when it all tips over, the hammer slams down, the waterfall rushes them over, the maelstrom drags them down and they realize that this was, indeed, inevitable. Sherlock’s heart is pounding; he can feel the adrenaline rush giving over to a slow throbbing pulse that makes his spine straighten and curl and his cheeks feel like they’re on fire. John’s breathing through his nose like a diesel train, and Sherlock can see the pulse jumping in his throat even in the shallow moonlight. 

The world swirls, tips, staggers, rights itself.

The surge forward is such that neither of them is sure who stepped first, afterward; just a sudden rush, a coming together like a book snapping shut, hands clasping, the quiet close of a door on a life alone. For a moment they press together, eyes wondering, hesitant; then John (brave John!) loosens his fist from the lapel of Sherlock’s coat, slides fingers up the side of Sherlock’s face into silky curls, and pulls that face down to his own.

I’d love to say that stars aligned, continents shifted, and the clouds parted in rays of angelic light. But that already happened. That moment had come and gone, for each of them, separately. Here, now, was the quivering truth: their lips, slightly chapped, trembling together; downswept lashes, blonde and dark, casting spider-shadows on their cheeks; and the moon, impassive, riding overhead, somehow diminished in the blaze of this coming together. So tender, that kiss; so slow, and soft, and full of rich promise; so very, very held-back and reined-in and wait-til-I-get-you-home-mister delicious.

Sherlock pulls back first, just enough that he can feel John’s breath against his lips.  
“Oh,” he breathes back. John’s smile curls like a beckoning finger, and Sherlock dips his head again.

This kiss is smoother, deeper. Their hands move to each others’ upper arms, grappling, holding closer. At first they just slide mouths together, open lips to breathe each others’ air, but then Sherlock feels John’s tongue skim his upper lip and he dives in, reckless. If their first kiss was promise, this one is declaration, and inundation and abandon. Sherlock moans into John’s mouth, holds John’s face between his hands, and John’s own hands slide warm under Sherlock’s coat behind his back and lock them together. This is heady contact and exploration and explosion. Here, they begin.

And when they lie later in tangled sheets, sated, for the moment, each assessing the bruises, fingertip and lovebite, on the other’s loved skin, their hands link in timeless, wordless affirmation: yes.

And so the moment, tipping, is lost, and everything everywhere, forever, is gained.

**Author's Note:**

> My everlasting love and devotion to the members of the Antidiogenes Club, where I was welcomed, cherished, and loved. You are the absolute brightest stars in my galaxy.


End file.
